Reunion
by Lassarina Aoibhell
Summary: Their reunion is unexpected, and the sweeter for it. Loose sequel to "Farewell."


Mitsuru sighed and rubbed her eyes. She had been staring at the computer screen all day, and her head was throbbing. The clock in the corner of her screen informed her that it was past 8 pm. Hunger no doubt accounted for part of the headache. With mechanical precision, she organized the papers on her desk and transferred the file she had been working on to a flash drive. She tucked everything into her leather briefcase and reached for her jacket.

The phone rang. Mitsuru scooped up the receiver with her left hand while using her right to shut down the computer. "Kirijo," she said briskly.

"Kirijo-san, there is someone to see you." She recognized the wheezing, smoke-rasped voice of the night guard. "He says his name is Sanada-san."

Akihiko. She hadn't seen him since she left the dorms; they exchanged e-mails, of course, but her schedule had been so busy. It had been five years.

"I'll be down directly," she said. "Thank you."

She slipped the phone back into its cradle and shrugged on her jacket. With her briefcase in her hand and her purse over her shoulder, she moved quickly through the Kirijo Group executive offices. She had been the first to arrive this morning, and was the last to leave this evening. She flicked off the lights as she made her way to the elevator.

Akihiko was waiting patiently at the front desk, his jacket slung over his shoulder in the familiar way, his other hand tucked in his pocket. Part of her wanted to rush forward, to embrace him or otherwise show her welcome, but the security guard would gossip. So she kept her pace even, the quick tapping of her heels on the floor continuing without variation, and held out her hand in formal greeting. "Akihiko," she said warmly. "It's good to see you."

He shook her hand, and his was warm and calloused. "It's good to see you too," he said. "I had business in Tokyo, and I thought--have you eaten?"

"No, I haven't. I was just about to go for food. What do you want to eat?" He hadn't released her hand, and she reluctantly had to disengage her fingers from his, lest she cause speculation.

He tucked his hand back in his pocket and shrugged. "Anything is good. I haven't eaten yet today, and I'm starved."

Mitsuru started toward the door, the click of her high heels on the floor not so very different from the click of her boots in Tartarus. The unconscious comparison sent a cool ripple of unease down her spine; it had been years since she had thought of the ever-changing tower. "There's a ramen shop near my apartment," she said with a slight laugh that sounded horribly awkward to her own ears. "If you want something fancier, we can manage that."

"That's fine," Akihiko said. He gestured at his jeans and casual shirt. "I'm not really dressed for upscale, anyway."

Mitsuru exited the building and turned left. The sidewalks weren't as crowded at this time of night, and it was easy to make her way along the sidewalk.

Upon discovering the ramen shop near her apartment, she had made it a point to eat there once a month, a memorial to Arisato. Sometimes her skin twitched at the memory of how foolishly she had behaved, the first time he took her to Hagakure, but she continued to go.

Akihiko's pace quickened, bringing him abreast of her. Silence hung between them, thick and oppressive like summer heat, as they made their way through the crowd. He kept one hand to hold his jacket, and had the other in his pocket. Mitsuru told herself she was too old for holding hands as they walked; the streets of Tokyo were not the halls of Gekkoukan. She kept her hands busy, one resting over her purse and the other carrying her briefcase.

They managed a few awkward words on the train ride, swaying with the movement of the train. It was nothing important: the weather, Akihiko's journey to Tokyo, the news of the day. They did not speak of Gekkoukan, or SEES, or Tartarus.

They did not speak of Arisato, or the kiss they shared the day she left the dormitory.

They did not speak of anything important.

Even so late in the evening, the ramen shop was loud and crowded, but someone was just leaving the table in the corner when they arrived. Mitsuru toyed with the long noodles in her bowl. She should eat, but words unspoken clogged her throat, filled her mouth.

"Aren't you hungry?" Akihiko had always had the capacity to consume more than she though the human body should hold; he devoured his ramen in the same focused way he had approached nearly everything in school.

Mitsuru caught some of the noodles in her chopsticks and put them in her mouth. The ramen here was good--better than Hagakure's, even--but it tasted like sawdust, thick and dry in her mouth. "It's been a long time," she said, and didn't know how to continue.

Akihiko stopped eating. His left hand rested on the table. She wondered what he would do if she reached over to touch his hand; she wondered what the other patrons would think.

She reached out until her fingertips barely brushed his hand. His skin was warm, and she could feel the energy crackling beneath it, as though Caesar's power lay seething beneath the surface, ready to erupt and be formed into a spell.

He didn't say anything else, just turned his hand over so that the back of it rested against the table and his fingertips curled under hers, a tenuous line of contact that simultaneously reassured her, and made her nervous.

He returned his attention to his bowl, scooping up a piece of shrimp tempura, and Mitsuru followed his example. They finished the meal in silence.

"My apartment is nearby," she said, when she could no longer face the thought of chewing and swallowing the ramen, when the silence pressing down on her was too much to bear.

He nodded, and followed her out of the shop. She led the way to her building, hearing the click of her heels and the sound of her own breathing far too clearly in the silence between them, though the city itself was not silent.

Once they reached her apartment, Mitsuru spent far too long fussing with the exact alignment of her shoes, the precise placement of her briefcase. Akihiko stood a few feet away from her, his hands in his pockets now that he had hung up his jacket.

"Mitsuru," he said, and she had _missed _that, missed their companionship and the sense of someone who truly understood what it was to have something living in her head that both was and was not her, something capable of unleashing massive amounts of destruction.

She turned toward him, and he stepped closer, lifting his hands to brush his fingertips over her cheek. When he kissed her, she felt a surge of triumph from Artemisia, the knowledge that she could overpower his persona, that she held the key to his weakness. The feel of electricity beneath his skin intensified, as though Caesar had reacted defensively to Artemisia's challenge.

Mitsuru ignored both of them, and took the half-step to close the remaining gap between her and Akihiko, leaning into the kiss.

"Welcome back," she said softly, when they parted.

Akihiko smiled.


End file.
